Page 21 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Jazz is all about getting people together.’ Fiona threw her a fond look. ‘Her mind buzzes constantly with ideas, and the story sessions are a hit – parents of the children and children of the oldies turn up every time, saying they’re chaperones, but really they just love being read to.’
‘Not sure how good I am at it, though,’ Jazz said.
‘You’re very popular,’ May replied, ‘which means you’re good. Don’t do yourself a disservice.’
Imogen grabbed a fresh sprig of mistletoe and the canof rose-gold spray-paint. She thought about mentioning her copy ofNorthanger Abbey, or the library sessions she used to help run, but for now she was content to listen. It was such a warm, happy place to be; she was glad she’d suggested this as their mistletoe solution and that Harry had agreed.
She looked up to find Lucy staring at her, her eyes dark behind the plastic goggles. ‘Are you OK, Lucy?’
‘You’ve got paint in your hair,’ Lucy said, her voice muffled by her mask. Then she giggled.
‘Oh.’ Imogen had forgotten to tie her dark brown hair back, and now a big chunk on one side was rose-gold. It was a mercy she hadn’t got any on Birdie’s old gardening cardigan, though her gran had offered it to her precisely because it could get mucky. ‘November isn’t too early for Christmas sparkle.’
‘Does that mean I can have spray-paint in my hair?’ Lucy asked. ‘I like the sparkly white.’
‘Not a chance,’ Fiona said. ‘What would your dad say if he turned up and you’d gone white? He’d go white himself, out of shock.’
‘Dexter would look good with sparkly curls,’ Sophie said. ‘Don’t encourage her,’ Fiona chided. ‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘Making snacks,’ Lucy said. ‘I hope he comes soon. I’m so hungry.’
Everyone murmured their assent, and Imogen tried not to glance at the door every few minutes, waiting for Dexter and his snacks to turn up. Instead she got lost in her work, spraying then arranging the mistletoe in good-sized bunches, so it was as appealing as possible. She wondered if it wasterrible to colour the leaves and berries, but reasoned that it had already been cut, so in some ways it was too late anyway. But she’d only bought water-based paint, and at least it would get a second life as someone’s decoration, prompting stolen kisses and brazen snogs. She listened to the others chat around her, teasing and bickering good-naturedly, Sophie and Harry’s obvious love for each other warming her to her core.
Then there was the telltale creak of the door opening, and she heard a familiar voice.
‘I brought mini pizzas. Better late than never, right? Have I missed all the fun?’
There were choruses of ‘no’, and ‘come and get stuck in’, and ‘let me at the pizza’.
Imogen glanced up just as Dexter kicked the door closed behind him. He was wearing jeans and his navy jacket, and carrying a large tray covered in foil. The wind hadn’t been able to resist tousling his hair, and his stubble was shorter today. She was allowed to think he was attractive, wasn’t she? It wasn’t a betrayal to Edmund. Herfiancé. Her ex-fiancé? She couldn’t imagine wanting to go back to him after everything that had happened, the way the wool had been tugged right off her eyes.
‘Imogen.’ Dexter’s greeting cut through her frenzied thoughts.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘You OK?’
‘Good thanks. You? Come and get some pizza.’
Lucy chose that moment to abandon her mistletoe, pull her mask down and say, ‘Imogen spray-painted herhair, can you believe that? Can I do it, Dad? Can I have sparkly hair for Christmas?’
Several pairs of eyes turned Imogen’s way, and she resisted the urge to hide.
‘Let’s talk about that later, Lucy.’ Dexter put his tray down, ruffled his daughter’s hair and complimented her bunches of mistletoe. Then he came over to the back of the hall, where Imogen was sitting on the floor. With everyone else swarming around the pizza, he crouched in front of her, his elbows on his knees. Imogen held her breath as he lifted her hair, examining the rose-gold ends. ‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘Celebratory.’
‘That’s what we’re doing here, after all!’ Her grin was verging on manic.
‘What are the different toppings?’ Jazz shouted. ‘This one’s pepperoni, but are there hidden mushrooms anywhere? I can’t be dealing with mushrooms.’
‘No hidden mushrooms,’ Dexter called, then smiled at Imogen. ‘OK?’ he asked quietly. He was so close, and his expression was so warm, and he had a smudge of flour on his cheek. She thought of her copy ofNorthanger Abbey,and one of the lines in the first chapter:If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad …
‘I’m good.’ She matched his pitch. ‘Thank you.’
She thought he might say something else, impart more of his wisdom. She would listen to anything he had to say. Instead he stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come and get some pizza with me.’
After only a second’s hesitation, she took it, and let him pull her to her feet.
Chapter Nine
Imogen had been in Mistingham a week, had spoken to the man she was supposed to be married to only once, and had spray-painted roughly five hundred sprigs of mistletoe and made a thousand Christmas wreaths. OK, so that might be abitof an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like, and yet she would happily do it all over again. She would twirl foliage through twine for eternity if it meant not having to work out the tangle of her failed wedding and her uncertain future.
